


Touch

by FandomTrashbag



Series: Pieces of Cake [13]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Biting, F/M, Honorable mention: erotic asphyxiation, Intimacy, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral sex mention, Scratching, Tactile, Touch-Starved, Touching, honorable mention: rough sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrashbag/pseuds/FandomTrashbag
Summary: They were a tactile couple. It didn’t take very long to notice if they were around others. It wasn’t something they were overly aware of; it was just how they were. It was an intimacy that was decent enough outside of private spaces; it somehow seemed more intrusive to watch, but it was difficult to look away from it.
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Series: Pieces of Cake [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772494
Comments: 2
Kudos: 69





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a conversation about how wildly romantic and fulfilling just touch can be. How it can be intimate without having to be inherently sexual. Think about how personal it is for a hand to feel empty when it isn't holding someone anymore and so it twitches just a little, or about how deeply it can feel to have a kiss loving pressed into the palm. It's wild. It's a little outdated to some. To me, it's bloody perfect.

They were a tactile couple. It didn’t take very long to notice if they were around others. It wasn’t something they were overly aware of; it was just how they  _ were _ . It was an intimacy that was decent enough outside of private spaces; it somehow seemed more intrusive to watch, but it was difficult to look away from it. Sometimes, it felt so wildly, deeply private. They did not kiss deeply or passionately in front of others, but the kisses left on knees, on temples, on wrists,  _ on palms  _ were enough to set the heart a-flutter.

When visiting for the holidays, she would sit on the sofa or a chair, one leg folded under and the other hanging down. He often sat on the ground; an arm curled around her dangling leg to hold. It could make him appear submissive, sure, but for her, he was. If it was all she could reach, her hand was always combing through his feather-soft hair.

Usually, their touch was with fingers and hands, all reasonably traditional. Palms touching and comfortably laced between them somehow: on a couch cushion, nestled in bright green grass, across a wrought-iron cafe table, wrapped about her middle. Whenever he had to let go of her for any real length of time, his hand would flex instinctively at the loss; it was a bit of a tick these days. If a thumb was moving, stroking softly and slowly, it was to comfort the other. There was likely to be no visible sign of distress, but it was a tell they shared. It was a way to communicate silent support for whatever bothers they battled. It was perhaps their most private of public touches, that stroking thumb.

Walking down the street, or maybe through a shopping mall or store, their arms would be locked around each other, freedom of movement be damned; they moved as one. When working through a crowd that forced them apart, a finger would find a belt loop or a suspender strap; you might even find a hand desperately hooked into a pocket to keep hold. Traditional travel was not often, but when they drove or flew, their hands were always firmly linked.

Sitting next to one another, there was always an arm draped across the back, fingertips resting, sometimes dancing, along the farthest shoulder. There would also be a hand stretched out to grip the other’s knee. Depending on the company, it might be tightly wrapped around a thigh in a subtle mark of possession.

Most touches were casually intimate and never thought about. The company they kept usually consisted of family, friends, and snarling occasionally-hairy and vile-smelling goblins; they didn’t bother to  _ think _ about how they were with one another. They were a tangle of arms and legs and heads tucked under chins whenever possible. Maybe it was the magic.

The magic was always so tactile, the way he taught her, and the way she learned. It was all rolling crystals and tingling fingertips, picking herbs and grinding them together. A connection was made stronger with touch.

This is not to say they couldn’t be apart. Though sleep may be more fitful-- in her case, it would disappear altogether, leaving her as sleepless as  _ before _ \-- it would eventually come, and the time spent away from one another merely made them worse.

Their favorite moments would always involve his lean form stretched languidly like a cat, his head firmly pillowed in her lap or across her thighs. She was often reading aloud, sometimes her own work for editing, her voice low and lulling to him while her fingers carded through his hair idly. If he didn’t fall asleep, they’d discuss the material. When he would decide to drift off, he would always grasp her hand, winding their fingers together and resting them on his chest over his slow-beating heart. They would often sleep like that on a hillside or under a tree, perpendicular to one another yet touching all the same. Occasionally, they would be found in a study like this and any observer would note that she’d have quite the stiff neck after an hour or two.

Some moments were made to chase away lingering loneliness. They were made to reassure in those moments, especially on her part, where the questions of  _ how  _ and  _ why  _ would float around. These moments came less and less as the years went on, though she would find herself often enough just staring in wonder while he wasn’t paying attention. She would see this regal creature, someone not quite human anymore but just barely, and question just how she managed to be the one at his side; why had  _ he _ picked  _ her _ ? He would always sense these things, and his hand would find her, his touch would turn comfortingly warm, and maybe his thumb would start to move. As soon as they were able, he would envelop her completely and answer those questions silently, showing her the depth of him without words.

Other moments were marked by burning, a pervasive need to touch and feel and  _ have _ . These were the touches saved for bedrooms and dark corners. They were full of a different  _ kind  _ of passion that didn’t quite have words. Touches like these were never seen by outsiders; the hot caresses belonged to only them, though the line of decency was sometimes blurred. Too often, they would find themselves pressed into a shadowed alcove tucked away from whatever event they were forced to attend. Skin would burn hot and flush brightly as the skin of her back would scrape against a stone wall, her mouth stuffed with his fingers to stifle noises as his own were successfully muffled between her legs. His digits would be pink and slightly swollen from her sucking and biting, while she would shift in her seat around the marks his teeth left in the flesh of her thighs. She would sometimes find small round bruises blossoming lightly on her waist, her hips, her thighs. There was that one time they were around her neck and he had marks to match. She would touch them gently and smile, knowing his arms, his thighs, his ass, and his back would be similarly marred with scratches left by the wake of their passion. Sometimes their violence would surprise her, but she would always remember it was fueled by love and desire. In spite of the marks they might occasionally leave on one another, they would kiss and soothe them tenderly for each other.

Yes, theirs was a physical love, as much as an emotional one. Those tactile connections helped them stay grounded in one another. They served as a reminder that they were present within each other’s lives and minds and hearts.


End file.
